So in that same spirit here is a previously published poem of mine. If it moves you pass it on and hopefully that original throwie that inspired me to write will continue to inspire others.
by: J. Wittmer
There is something pure about writing a poem
on whatever is at hand and readily available
cocktail napkins seem the most common
often the backs of fliers
though any blank inviting space
or typewritten page with a wide enough margin
has the potential to grow beyond
its original intended purpose.
I have written poems on all manner
of blank surface.
Walls, postcards, envelopes, pant legs,
the left palm, margins of books,
coffee pot filters, a crumpled paper cup
that happened to blow my way.
Only the most concise poems
will fit on the
diminutive real-estate of an empty glassine
stamp collectors and heroin addicts
need the steady hands of surgeons
to draw the tiny letters required.
It is especially sweet to spill
out a poem on the envelope
of an unopened bill.
I always reserve the hope
for poets everywhere
we all will be able to send those bills back
to our creditors
with our words scrawled across
the envelopes triangular folds
and that our
accounts will be reconciled
the poem accepted as
I have seen poems written
in Japanese characters on grains of rice
the delicate fingers capable of such a thing.
Those invertebrate fingers
softer than sea vegetables
like tiny probing antennae
painting the smallest poems
on pages to perfect to bind.
In my ideal world billboards
would be stripped of suggestive commerce
making space for poets to
advertise the minds capacity
for squalor and beauty.
Teary eyed nine to fivers would arrive at the factory
having read an entire anthology
on the morning commute
and maybe call their spouses
to tell them for the first time
in far too long how much
they are appreciated and loved.
Sit down strikes
would be inspired
though traffic accidents
may be more common.
Tyrannical bosses would soften
or if not be strung up
by the worker empowered by
Marxist inspired prose.
Only the most urgent poems would
adorn the sides of ambulances
only the loudest, sickest poems
would you read as they
At the recycling center
you would find only the
heavily read lines of
maybe broken from the
mulched and jumbled together
with the rest of their contemporaries
a brand new masterpiece
reborn out of the cumulative bits.
Our world could change over night
if every dull surface were covered with words.
I have seen it happen in cities
where graffiti artists have
hung harnessed at the ends of ropes
from the sides of
two story concrete promontories
hidden by the blind night of a new moon.
The next morning as the sun rose
unveiling the poignant possibility of
all ordinary concrete slabs,
it was for some
as if the sun were
rising for the first time
the brilliant color of another mans
spilling like truth into their own.
It was that way for me.
And for that single morning
in that small section of that particular city
the world seemed much different than it had
just the day before.
All the commonly overlooked possibilities
staring starkly and vividly
asking us why
we hadn't thought of them